Poppy's Place in the Sun

by Lorraine Wilson

  Has he met someone else? That’s the only explanation that would make sense right now.

  Dumped by text. I’m a clichéd statistic. It’s one of those things you hear about but think will never happen to you. Just a few symbols on my phone screen, and Pete has burst the bubble of happiness I’ve been floating along in since I put in an offer on the dream house. Supposedly “our” dream house. He has brought me back down to earth with a nasty bump.

  It looks like Mum and Dad are right. I am “the dreamy one with her head in the clouds.” How else could I have missed this coming? My cheeks burn, but I feel strangely cold.

  I look down at my hands. They’re shaking. I put my phone away before I drop it but stay rooted to the bench. I stroke Peanut absentmindedly, still reeling.

  How could he … How?

  Watching A Place in the Sun should come with a health warning. I used to record all the programmes and watch them on my iPad at night. I fell asleep dreaming of picturesque villas with mountain views and vivid turquoise swimming pools shimmering in the heat. Vibrant images danced in my mind, luring me away from everything I was used to. Taking me away from a world that was safe.

  I would imagine having breakfast on a sun-drenched terrace, my dogs lying contentedly at my feet. Then I’d drink wine as the sun slipped down, streaking the mountain skyline with crimson as I headed off to work in my purpose-built art studio, converted from an outbuilding.

  Only now does it occur to me that Pete didn’t feature much in my daydreams. He was there in some of them – walking hand in hand with me through the markets and then us sitting together having dinner at a restaurant in an elegant and sunny town square.

  Part of the daydreams or not, Pete was a pretty essential part of the overall plan. He was meant to take charge of turning the outbuildings into gîtes. He’s the one with the project management skills, and his financial contribution to the project was meant to pay for all the renovations. We had it all planned.

  Or at least I thought we did.

  Why didn’t I question the fact that he didn’t want to be on the property deeds “for capital gains tax reasons”? He planned to hold onto his flat and rent it out. He didn’t want to be clobbered for tax and said his flat would give us somewhere to go back to if everything went wrong. A safety net. Ha!

  I absentmindedly stroke Peanut, and she nestles into me.

  It seemed to make sense at the time. Have I been selfish? Gullible, perhaps, but I don’t recall bullying Pete into the decision. I’ve been so busy getting my flat ready for sale and then getting my non-essential belongings into storage for Pete to bring down with him in a rented van. We haven’t spent much time together recently, but he always seemed very enthusiastic about moving. Why on earth didn’t he say something before now?

  I pull the new house keys out of my pocket and finger them. The Estate Agent tag is still attached – it’s labelled “Les Coquelicots,” which roughly translates as “The Poppy House.” It seemed like such a good sign at the time. Not that I go around looking for signs, but the name jumped out at me from all the property details I had. None of the other options even came close.

  I remember a phrase from the letter Gran put in with her will – “Find a home in France, Poppy darling, somewhere they aren’t afraid of ‘tall poppies.’ I’m convinced there is somewhere magical waiting for you – a place you can put down roots and grow to be the tall Poppy you are destined to be, without anyone trying to cut you down to size.”

  So, the house name was more than a nice coincidence. When we viewed it, the wild poppies had just begun to flower. They flourished and dominated the cottage garden, and something deep inside me tugged me towards the property, almost like a magnetic pull. It was very strange. I just knew. This was my new home.

  And we hadn’t even opened the front door yet.

  Everything about it felt perfect, and as a possible holiday accommodation property it had great potential, Pete said. With the medieval walled city of Carcassonne to the north, easy access to the coast in the summer and ski resorts in the winter, it should make a perfect tourist retreat.

  Should do. Could do. Will do?

  I’m determined not to think in the past tense. I can do this on my own, right?

  Oh, crap and double crap.

  A knot of panic twists in my stomach like a physical pain. I take a deep breath and get a grip. There’s no point thinking about what I could’ve done differently. I now have the keys.

  New keys. New house. New life.

  I take another deep breath and try to put Peanut down, but she clings to me like a baby koala, as though she’s picked up on my barely suppressed panic. She probably has. I remember reading that dogs can smell our stress pheromones. Peanut acts like she’s big and tough, and the other two boy dogs accept her as pack leader without a quibble, but she’s often insecure. Both she and Treacle are rescue dogs and hate me leaving them. Pickwick is more confident, but then he was Gran’s dog. He’s always known what it means to be loved. She left him to me when she died, along with the money to help me make this move.

  I cuddle Peanut back, her affection and vulnerability making it even harder not to cry. I don’t feel like moving but am aware of the penetrating stares of an old lady in a housecoat sitting outside her house opposite the bench. There’s something about her suspicious, hooded eyes that gives me the jitters. She looks like she thinks I’m a serial murderer or burglar or both and will set about me with a broom if I don’t move on.

  I gather up the dog leads and head for the village market before going back to the car. It’s not as big as the Monday market in nearby Mirepoix that all the tourists flock to, but it has everything I need for the moment. The desire to get supplies in so I can lie low and lick my wounds has kicked in.

  I haven’t got much of an appetite, but the market manages to distract me. The aroma of freshly baked bread draws me towards a stall laden with baguettes, freshly baked cakes and pastries. I buy a baguette, a quiche Lorraine and a golden, flakey pain au chocolat that doesn’t resemble anything like the more pallid, additive-packed offerings in the supermarkets back home. Then I head to the fruits and vegetables and buy some of the reddest cherry tomatoes I’ve ever seen, still on their vine. I’m tempted by the watermelons bigger than cannonballs but haven’t got a bag suitable for carrying one back to the car, so in the end I settle for ripe, luscious peaches and local cherries.

  The dogs’ noses are up in the air, and as one they tug me towards the butcher’s van. I relent and buy a remarkably cheap steak for us all to share tonight. After all, the dogs need cheering up too. Pete has abandoned them as well as me. He said he adored them. But then he also said he loved me, and that obviously wasn’t true.

  By now I’m finding it a strain keeping up the “I’m here to support the local economy and not to drive up house prices and leave your children homeless” smile. It’s a tough sentiment to portray with faltering French and sore cheek muscles, not to mention a sore heart.

  I ignore the stalls selling intricately patterned scarves and handmade jewellery, quickly buy some free-range eggs and head back to the Mini before the smile slips. There’s a tightness spreading through my chest, making it hard to breath. By the time I’ve put the shopping and dogs in the car, the sensation is developing into a full-on panic attack.

  Being on my own shouldn’t feel so terrifying. After all I’ve lived on my own for years. I’ve been happily single before. But that was in a country where I had a support network around me. Where I speak the language well enough to handle any crisis thrown at me.

  I get in and start the engine. It won’t be as terrible as I dread. I’m just feeling bad because Pete has dumped me. By text.

  And also because I don’t know a single sodding soul in this country except for a lecherous notaire and his receptionist who is beautiful, elegant and far too cool for me.

  Once I’ve remembered how to breathe again, I ring the only person it was a real wrench to leave behind in England – my bes
t and oldest friend Michelle. I use my hands-free set in the car. I had wondered if I’d get a follow-up grovelling text or call from Pete, but there’s nothing. I think about ringing him, but my finger hovers over his contact details without actually touching the screen. Something is holding me back. I don’t know what to say to him. Partly because I’m still winded, and also because I’m too proud to beg, and I’m afraid I might resort to it in a moment of weakness. Or worse I’ll cry, and he’ll be condescending. Then I’ll feel like hitting him and won’t be able to…

  As the phone rings at Michelle’s end, I vaguely register how pretty the main road through the village looks. Plane trees line both sides of the street, and sunlight filters down through silvery-green leaves onto honey-coloured stone buildings. There are more of the painted shutters I love and a small café with people sitting outside, enjoying the sun and chatting with friends over coffee with the shopping from the market piled around their feet. It’s as though what I love about France is trying to nudge me through my shock and panic to remind me why I’m here. Also, I’ve got to remember this is not just about the picturesque villages and markets but the all-important sunshine my body needs if I’m going to be able to carry on working.

  Early onset arthritis. A bad diagnosis for anyone, but especially not good for an illustrator or artist. Gran always swore her winters here in the sun did wonders for her arthritic joints. It’s one of the reasons she left me the legacy to enable me to pay off my mortgage and make this move. She said I should buy a property that could earn me money if I become unable to work, but that I should do it now while I’m healthy enough and young enough to enjoy the adventure. Quite how I’m going to get the property earning money without Pete’s help, I don’t know.

  I practically sob with relief when Michelle picks up on the fifth ring.

  “Hi Poppy, or should that be Bonjour? How does it feel to be a French homeowner then?” Her voice is bright and chirpy. “I can’t believe you’re the one going off and having adventures while I’m the one living in bloody suburbia with kids and a huge mortgage that keeps us awake at night. I always thought of the two of us that…”

  “Michelle. I…” I cut her off mid-stream before my head explodes. It feels like it might, anyway. Can aneurysms be triggered by stress? My chest hurts as well, swollen with a too-tight feeling, like I’ve swallowed a rock and it’s lodged in my rib cage.

  “What’s wrong?” Her tone changes immediately.

  “It’s Pete. He’s. He’s…” I choke on my words and almost miss the turning next to the chateau down the private gravel track that leads to Les Coquelicots.

  “Is he ill? In hospital? What is it, Poppy?” Michelle asks sharply.

  I try to take another deep breath, but it morphs into a deep sigh.

  “He’s not coming.” I pull up in front of my gate and turn the engine off. I want to, need to, tell her he’s dumped me, but I think saying the words aloud would definitely unleash the tears.

  “But I thought you weren’t expecting him yet,” Michelle sounds puzzled. “You said you were driving down to the South of France on your own. Hang on a second.”

  The background noise of a children’s cartoon fades.

  “That’s better, I can hear you properly now. I’m as much of an Ardmann fan as the next person, but I’m getting bored of Shaun the Sheep on endless repeat. Tell me what you said again. What’s wrong exactly?” Her calm, no-nonsense tone soothes me a little. I picture her sitting, legs tucked up gracefully beneath her on the faded IKEA sofa we used in our flat share before she got married. It’s now covered with child-friendly throws, but the familiarity of the image is comforting.

  “He’s not coming here. Ever.” The words have a horrible finality to them. It’s as though it’s only now I’m speaking it out loud that I can really start to believe that I haven’t just imagined the whole thing. “It seems he lied about handing in his notice. They offered him more money to stay, and he took it.”

  There’s a slight wobble to my voice at the end of the sentence. Being valued less than a fatter pay check isn’t very complimentary. That’s if it’s really about the money. Yes, Pete threw himself wholeheartedly into the project idea once I’d won him round, but he’s right, it was always my dream first, not his.

  Or perhaps he just wanted to dump me, and waiting until I’d signed the final papers was an easy out for him. No messy emotional dramas to deal with if I’m in another country.

  “And he told you this when?” Michelle’s tone hardens as she morphs from bored mum to best friend ready to go into battle.

  “Just now. He timed it so I got the text right after I signed the final papers and got the keys.” I half laugh, half sob. Then I have to reassure Peanut who turns her anxious, big, brown eyes on me, ever watchful for a sign of distress. Poor thing. For all her bravado, she’s pretty vulnerable underneath.

  A bit like me really.

  “Fuck,” Michelle says.

  “Fuck indeed,” I repeat solemnly, staring through the gate at my new home.

  Its shabby chic elegance inspired me when I first saw it. It has wooden shutters on every window that I plan to paint duck egg blue, and the upstairs bedrooms all have elegant wrought iron balconies. Back in England, whenever I pictured the house, it was with its beauty restored, adorned with pretty window boxes and shiny, copper planters full of lavender.

  But now I see a few patches of peeling paint around the front door, window frames that need sanding down and repainting, and the odd straggling weed encroaching on the pretty cottage garden. And that’s just what I can see from here.

  If I can’t restore the chic, will I just be left with shabby? I’ll still love it, but getting paying guests to feel the same might be a tad difficult.

  On its own I might just about manage to cope with the house. Maybe.

  It’s the fact I’m now also the owner of a large barn, several stone outbuildings, a ruined chapel, ten acres of land and two acres of woodland that scares the pants off me. That was the part Pete got so excited about though, and he kept enthusing about all the money it could make us once we’d done the conversions.

  “No problem,” he’d said. “You’ve got me to handle all that side of things for you. I’ll pay for it all. That will be my contribution.”

  Remembering the words, I snort, feeling hysterical laughter bubbling up inside.

  “Are you okay, sweetie? Are we still at the fuck stage?” Michelle asks cautiously.

  “Definitely, absolutely,” I say. “As in I have been, and not in a good way.”

  “You can do it without him.” Michelle sounds like she’s trying to inject enough confidence for the both of us into her words.

  “Yes, I know I can,” I lie.

  “Of course.” Even Michelle doesn’t sound convinced.

  My own best friend isn’t sure I can make it. My parents certainly think I can’t. Something stirs inside me as I look at The Poppy House, like the house is reproaching me. I’m filled with an indignation, a determination to bloody well prove everyone wrong, even myself, and succeed.

  “Other people do this and make it work, so why shouldn’t I?”

  I deliberately move away from talking about Pete. I need to focus on something positive. The statistics about the numbers of Brit expats who don’t make it and return home briefly flit into my mind, and I soundly bat them away again. I only know about them thanks to Mum, who made sure I saw the article in the newspaper when she was trying to talk me out of the move.

  Instead I think about Gran and how much she would’ve loved this house. It was Gran who inspired my love of France. When my older sisters were off doing the Duke of Edinburgh award or building orphanages in Africa, I used to travel with Gran – Champagne, The Alps, Côte d’Azur, Provence and the Pyrenees. She took me on my first trip to the medieval fortified city of Carcassonne. I was only twelve, but it made a big impression on me. She told me that Walt Disney was inspired to create the famous Disney logo when he visited the city wit
h its cobbled streets and fairy tale spires.

  Something about this area called me back when we were house hunting.

  Then, when I walked up the track to Les Coquelicots for the viewing, I knew instantly. The certainty was so absolute I cancelled all the other viewings.

  I know Gran would love this house.

  My house.

  She wouldn’t care that inside there’s no kitchen to speak of – just an ancient range backed up by an old electric cooker, a butler’s sink and a few shelves. The plumbing and electricity “need updating,” as estate agents put it. It just needs some TLC. As I stare at the house with its wild cottage garden leading up to the woods and the jagged mountain peaks in the distance, my heart does skip, just a little.

  So it’s not broken then. Not irrevocably, anyway.

  In spite of its sheer impracticality, I love it all. The house crying out to be loved and filled with life. The land that’s bigger than my local park back home. The impossibly wild, tangled woodland I don’t know how to care for.

  This feels like coming home. I just wish I wasn’t coming home alone. It’s a big old house for one person and three miniature dogs.

  “Are you still there, Poppy?” Michelle’s anxious tone cuts into my thoughts. She’s used to me drifting off. From our very first day of secondary school, when Michelle decided I was going to be her best friend. Her mum used to say I was having a “fairy” moment when I drifted off into a daydream, as in I was “away with them.” So, when I got the commission for the Fenella Fairy books, it seemed kind of appropriate.

  “Yes. I’m here. Just about.” I swallow hard, trying to forget how Pete and I toured the bedrooms and talked about what might make the best room for a nursery one day. Maybe.

  One day.

  My jaw clenches with the effort of holding it all in. How did I miss this? I feel so utterly stupid.